


you're just too tired to stop

by MaliciousVegetarian



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Child Death, Depression, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Stuffed Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-14 22:41:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28928211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaliciousVegetarian/pseuds/MaliciousVegetarian
Summary: Jaskier has always carried his old doll, Dandelion, with him, and he's finally grown daring enough to get something similar for Geralt.  But when he finds the witcher again, he needs more help than either of them know how to provide.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 8
Kudos: 124





	you're just too tired to stop

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Here's my submission for the Geralt Jaskier Big Bang. Check out the amazing art by SquareSweet here: https://squaresweet.tumblr.com/post/640852534717792256/soooo-this-is-my-piece-for-gjbb2020-this-is-art
> 
> Warnings for child death, descriptions of mental health issues, and a description of a body.
> 
> Title from Old Pine Box by They Might Be Giants, a very Geralt-y song
> 
> Edit: on rereading this I see dozens of typos but I'll be honest, it's late and I'm tired so I'll go through and fix them tomorrow

Jaskier has been carrying the stuffed wolf around for a while.

It’s easy enough to carry around, since it’s barely as long as his forearm. It’s made so that it sits upright, head cocked intently. He’d found it in a stall at an Oxenfurt market he was particularly fond of, one he’d often wandered through as a student. He had noticed the collection of stuffed animals at this stall, and stopped to peruse, as he often did, although he rarely let himself buy one. He was already lugging too many around with him.

This one caught his eye - there was something about the expression on its face. The eyes were embroidered, not glass like more expensive ones had, but they were full of personality. He picked it up, carefully turning it over in his hands. It was fairly simple, but carefully made.

It made him think of Geralt. The wolf was made entirely from white felt, and the association was too firmly set to avoid.

He put it down, telling himself that it wouldn't be the sort of present Geralt enjoyed. He was always strangely gentle with Jaskier's stuffed toys, especially Dandelion, the one he carried around most frequently. But while Jaskier had long suspected Geralt of enjoying soft things more than he would ever allow himself to let on, he was also pretty sure Geralt wouldn't react well to being given soft things. It wouldn't be befitting of a witcher or something.

He left the stall and continued wandering the market, stopping to get a small notebook from one of his favorite stalls. As he was getting ready to return to his quarters, vendors were packing up around him, done for the day. He couldn’t get the thought of the little wolf out of his head.

In the end, he had thought, wasn’t that the person he wanted to be to Geralt, the kind who gave him things he likes even if he can’t express that he likes them. He wanted to show Geralt he’s allowed to do things that don’t fit with the world’s image of a witcher.

He carried the wolf back in his arms, not wanting to put it in his bag.

\--

When spring begins to make itself known that year, Jaskier packs the wolf - he’s decided to leave the naming to Geralt - with the rest of his stuffed animals. There’s Puddle the cow, Bernard the owl, and Odd the dragon. He leaves Dandelion out, preferring to carry the little bard doll in the pocket of his lute case.

Dandelion has seen better days. His clothes have faded from vibrant purple to a soft gray. His painted face has worn til it’s barely visible. Where his arms are attached to his body, they’ve stretched and the fabric has thinned, a consequence of Jaskier dragging him around by the arm as a child. And the jaunty felt feather has fallen out of his cap.

None of that matters to Jaskier, of course. He’s thought about finding someone to touch up Dandelion’s face, but at this point he’s used to it.

He doesn’t carry Dandelion around in public much, only when he really needs him. Occasionally when he’s performing he’ll set him in clear sight against his lute case, which people seem to like. As a child, though, he’d carried him everywhere, against his parents’ bitter protestations.

He tucks Dandelion gently into the pocket, leaving his face poking out, gives his room one last look, then leaves, throwing his relatively small bag over his shoulder.

He and Geralt have arranged to meet in a small town near Oxenfurt. It’s a new thing they’ve been doing the past few years, picking meeting places instead of leaving it to chance. Jaskier likes it. It makes him feel like Geralt is as invested in seeing him again as Jaskier is in seeing him.

When Jaskier arrives, he goes immediately to the town’s only inn, hoping that Geralt has had the sense to wait inside. He hasn’t. Instead, Jaskier finds him in the town square, leaning against a large tree, apparently oblivious to how the villagers are side-eying him. He looks strangely small against the tree, and Jaskier is suddenly over taken with the urge to grab hold of him and keep him from floating away into the sky.

Instead, he calls out to him loudly, turning the heads of people who had been studiously avoiding the witcher’s gaze. Geralt looks up, something strange in his eyes, but he breaks into a large (by Geralt standards) smile.

It’s stupid, how the sound of his name makes the world feel like it’s falling into place.

Jaskier laughs out loud, restraining himself from running the rest of the way. He takes Geralt in. He’s a little thinner than he usually is after the winter, but still better than when they’d parted in the fall. His hair is pulled back all the way, and Jaskier is glad he seems to have been taking care of himself.

“It’s good to see you,” he says, keeping himself from hugging Geralt for only a moment before he throws his arm around him. Geralt returns the embrace tenderly, pressing his face into the side of Jaskier’s neck for a moment. He doesn’t say anything else, but Jaskier understands regardless.

\--  
It takes Jaskier only three days to realize something is off with Geralt. It takes him several weeks to realize the extent of it.

He still hasn’t given him the stuffed wolf. The time just hasn’t seemed right. He’s not sure exactly what he’s waiting for, maybe some kind of sign that Geralt won’t react badly. 

Overall, the witcher seems tired. He’s just a hair slower than normal, moving not so much stiffly but as if he’s wading through quicksand. He isn’t eating as much either, Jaskier notices. Normally, he eats as much as he can get his hands on, but when they stop to eat, he lets Jaskier take the bigger serving. And despite Jaskier’s first assessment, he doesn’t seem to actually be taking better care of his appearance, just putting his hair up so it looks neater.

A week into their travels together, Geralt pulls Jaskier aside. He looks slightly embarrassed, and Jaskier feels more apprehensive than he normally would in this situation. His apprehension is only slightly decreased when Geralt says, “I. Got you something.” 

He holds out a lumpy gray object. Jaskier reaches for it, and as he touches it he realizes it’s a woven cotton blanket, thin enough to not be much use in the winter but comfortable. He strokes a hand over it, enjoying the way it squishes under his fingers.

“You’re always complaining that the blankets are too hot, and you don’t sleep well without one,” Geralt says gruffly. “I thought. Hmm. That this would help.”

“It will,” Jaskier says, absolutely delighted and wanting to embrace Geralt, but holding back. “Thank you so much, this is - thank you.” He’s tearing up a little bit, he realizes. He wipes his face with the back of his hand, and sets the blanket on the bed. “I have something for you as well, but you have to promise not to make fun of me.”

Geralt nods, looking at him with a strange kind of surprise. Jaskier picks his bag from the bed and digs through it until he finds the stuffed wolf. Stomach churning, he holds it out to Geralt.

Instead of taking it, Geralt looks up at his face. “This is for me?”

Jaskier turns his head slightly so he’s not meeting Geralt’s eyes. He doesn’t want to see what’s there. “Yeah.”

He feels more than sees Geralt take it, removing it gently from Jaskier’s hands. When he feels brave enough to look up, he finds Geralt staring at the wolf as if in wonder. He turns it over in his hand, examining the construction.

“It made me think of you,” Jaskier says. “Because of the whole, y’know, wolf thing? I found it in Oxenfurt and I don’t know, it just seemed right -”  
“Jaskier,” Geralt says gruffly. “Thank you.”

“Are you going to name it?” Jaskier asks, unable to stop himself. “All stuffed animals need a name.”

Geralt thinks for only a moment before saying, “Fangtooth.”

“Ah, an excellent name, befitting such a fearsome beast!” Jaskier throws a hand out to illustrate his statement. Geralt looks at him again, the corners of his eyes crinkled in the way they only do when he’s amused with Jaskier’s antics.

“Thank you,” he says, soft and genuine, meeting Jaskier’s eyes. “No one’s ever - I’ve never had anything like this.”

And oh, that hurts. Jaskier longs, suddenly but not unfamiliarly, to be able to comfort a younger Geralt than this, the child who grew up in an imposing witcher’s keep. He wants to be able to scoop him up in his arms and - he just can’t resist anymore. He hugs Geralt tightly. After a long moment, Geralt hugs back.

Geralt doesn’t sleep with Fangtooth that night, but he does place him carefully on the nightstand.

\--

Geralt seems distant this year. Every now and then, like when he gave him Fangtooth, Jaskier feels like he’s broken through.

A month into their reunion, Geralt takes a contract for a selkiemore. Jaskier doesn’t say anything, but he’s worried. Geralt has taken a few contracts, but they’ve all been easily dealt with, one even turning out to be a hungry bear instead of some more insidious monster.

The night before the hunt, Geralt seems distracted going through his potions and supplies. He keeps spacing out and losing count of the potions. Jaskier is even more on edge when he notices that a few of the potions are running low. Despite his best judgement, he doesn’t say anything, just watches as Geralt arranges the small bottles on the frayed bedspread of the inn they’re staying at.

When Geralt begins insisting he stay back, however, he does say something.

There’s been something off about Geralt. Jaskier has picked it up in a million different ways - he’s more snappish, and even more quiet than usual. And something about the quiet doesn’t feel right. It’s too tense, and Geralt rarely looks at Jaskier when he talks to him.

And Jaskier has no idea how to help. In the most insecure part of himself, the one he tries mightily not to listen to, he worries that he’s somehow caused this.

He has tried to start at the beginning, the way Geralt always does with a contract. Gather the facts first, then make a plan of action. Define the edges and the picture will come into view. But whenever Jaskier tries to pull Geralt’s odd behavior together, it slips away from him.

Anyways, he tells Geralt he doesn’t want to let him go alone.

“Why,” Geralt asks bluntly, keeping his head turned away from Jaskier.

Jaskier falls back on the oldest excuse in his book. “I’ve been running low on material lately.”

“I’ll tell you about it.”

Jaskier waves a hand grandly, feeling some of his desperation leak into the motion. “But you’re never as eloquent as I want you to be. It’s always ‘I went out, I found it, I killed in. Bastards didn’t pay me enough.’”

Is it his imagination, or did Geralt’s shoulders droop when he said that?

“I’ll do better,” he promises quietly.

“No,” Jaskier says. “No, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean you had to.”

Geralt shakes his head a little. “I’ll tell you all about it later, I promise.”

Despite the small hiccup, the argument is a familiar one, and it’s almost comforting to Jaskier to hash it out again. In the end, he gives in, something he rarely does, because he’s a little afraid of how Geralt will react if Jaskier pushes. Not afraid of Geralt, but for him. He’ll come back, Jaskier thinks. He has to.

Geralt leaves, and Jaskier lets himself mope around the inn for a while, since he has time to kill before his performance that night. He spends most of it pacing, trying to keep his thoughts from Geralt and mostly failing. He pulls Dandelion from his lute case and stares at the small doll. “What the fuck do I do about him?” he asks. There’s no response, which is probably a good thing in the grand scheme.

Geralt doesn’t come back until Jaskier is almost done with his performance. He opens the door, unheard by the rowdy crowd, and makes his way to the back of the room without saying anything. Jaskier tries to make eye contact with him, but he seems lost in his own world. At least he seems uninjured, and mostly free of monster guts. Several tavern-goers catch sight of him in the gloom and murmur to their neighbors.

Jaskier tries to hurry the performance along, but he gets sucked into an encore, and then one more. Normally he would be feeling giddy, on top of the world, but right now all he can focus on is Geralt. He’s sure this isn’t his best showing, but nobody seems to mind.

Finally, finally it’s over and the crowd begins to disperse. Jaskier makes his way over to Geralt, trying not to show his eagerness to get there.

“How did it go? You’re not injured, right?”

“I’m fine, Jaskier.” Geralt’s voice seems more worn than normal, as if he’s been yelling. Jaskier tries to put the thought out of his mind and focus on the witcher in front of him.

“Would you like a bath? I can have one sent for, it’ll only take -”

“No!” Geralt snaps, eyes blazing for an instant. Then, more softly, “no, I’m fine.”

Someone clears their throat behind them, and Jaskier turns to see a man who he believes is the village blacksmith, wiping his hands menacingly on the apron he’s still wearing. “Is there a problem, master bard?” he asks politely. “If so, I’d be delighted to teach this mongrel some manners.”

Jaskier can almost feel Geralt sag, even though his physical position doesn’t change. He feels anger, thick and hot, rising in his throat like phlegm, but he swallows it down. Getting into a fight won’t cheer Geralt up.

“There’s no problem,” he says, managing to remain mostly amicable. There’s a lantern, swinging overhead from a slight draft. Jaskier focuses on the way the light moves. “Everything’s fine.”

The man raises an eyebrow. “Are you sure? This mutant was speaking to you disrespectfully.”

“We’re fine,” Jaskier says again, more firmly. The man doesn’t seem to believe him, as he says, “if he gives you any more trouble, come find me and I’ll take him out back.”

Jaskier does his best to nod sarcastically. He is very aware of the fact that he has no idea what “take him out back” means, or that the man hasn’t told him where to find him. Neither really matters, because there’s no way he’s going to find him.

“Come on,” he says to Geralt, grabbing his hand and dragging him towards the stairs. The man watches them go, eyes narrowed.

The room is small, and Jaskier can feel another draft coming through the walls, but there’s a thick blanket on their bed, and a quilt folded over that with beautiful pale colors. Jaskier has done his best to unpack their things while Geralt was away, but right now the room mostly seems cold.

Geralt sits on the bed. Jaskier was right, there’s a minimum of monster guts, which is good for the light quilt. He begins to unbuckle his armor, his movements somehow exhausted. Jaskier moves to help him, but Geralt pulls away. He leaves the armor on the floor for a long moment, then bends over slowly, organizing it the way he always does. Jaskier isn’t sure why he feels like he’s watching an avalanche fall on a small village.

After that, they get ready for bed. It’s late, and even though Jaskier suspects Geralt won’t sleep, he insists they at least lay down. 

As he lays down next to Geralt, he finds that the witcher has Fangtooth clutched in one hand.

\--

They camp by a river. It’s not so close to the camp site that they can see it, but they can hear it through the trees, and it lights something in Jaskier.

“Come on!” he calls to Geralt as soon as they’ve gotten the camp set up. “Let’s go swimming.”

Geralt gives him a long look. Jaskier just stares back, well accustomed to this. He knows how to win a staring competition with Geralt. He sighs, and puts down the bag he’s still holding.

The water is bitterly cold, but Jaskier strips down to his smalls anyways. He sticks a foot in, yelps, and pulls it back out. Geralt rolls his eyes and jumps in fully clothed.

“What are you doing?” Jaskier squeaks. “You don’t have other pants!”

Geralt hmms. “They need washed. Are you getting in?”

Jaskier sticks a foot in again and manages to stay there for a moment before Geralt, quick as a flash, reaches out, grabs it, and pulls him into the river.

He surfaces spluttering, and the only thing he can think to do is slam his hands down as hard as he can, creating a wave of water in Geralt’s direction. Geralt waits until the last moment to make the sign of Quen, sending the water bouncing back at Jaskier.

“Hey!” Jaskier yells. “Foul play!”

“Careful, or you’ll get soaked,” Geralt says with a small smile, and any annoyance Jaskier felt towards him melts away. When was the last time he had seen Geralt smile?

“I’m not the one wearing _pants_!”

Geralt is only able to find one scrawny rabbit for their dinner that night, and Jaskier gets a knowing look when he comes back. But he doesn’t really care. Geralt eats his fair share for the first time since they started travelling together again.

\--

It’s early morning, but it’s already an hour past when Geralt usually rises, judging by the position of the sun. It’s early summer now, and the trees are in full leaf, the rising sun casting shadows through them as it moves upwards. Jaskier is sitting in his bedroll, pretending he doesn’t know Geralt is awake.

The witcher is lying on his side away from Jaskier, long hair spread where he had rolled in the night. The rise and fall of his chest gives him away - it’s too fast for him to be asleep.

Jaskier has no idea what to do, how to help. He’s afraid to break the silence settled over the clearing like fog. The birds are singing loudly in the trees, and a wind is rustling the leaves, but all he can focus on is Geralt’s breathing. The forest around them is full of life, but everything seems to have stilled.

Finally, Geralt moves, pushing himself up on his elbows. He looks like he barely slept, must have just been laying there for hours. He gets himself the rest of the way up, pointedly not looking at Jaskier. He moves about his business, quietly rolling up his bedroll. He keeps his back to Jaskier as much as he can.

Jaskier isn’t sure what to say, what to do. He’s never seen Geralt like this, and he’s seen him quite a few ways. What Geralt wants, though, seems to be to be left alone. There’s an embarrassed tilt to his shoulders, a hunched over sort of way he moves. Jaskier desperately wants to soothe those clenched muscles, but he doesn’t think he would be allowed.

They carry on, the way they always do.

\--

Summer is glorious, and Jaskier can’t help but revel in it. Even when it's almost unbearably hot, he manages to find the joy in the day, in the green grass and bright sky. And the storms! Oh, the storms. He loves so much he would stand out in them if he didn't know what a bad idea that was.

Geralt doesn't seem the same level of excited about summer, which is usual. But he isn't complaining about it either, which isn't. He just troops along through rain and mud like he thinks he deserves it or something.

. . . Actually, that's probably exactly what he thinks.

They still stop and take shelter when storms approach. In mid summer, they're walking through a rocky stretch of forest, one eye on the menacing clouds. The path is rough, full of stones at tree roots. Jaskier kicks at them and swears under his breath.

Geralt has been in a bad mood all day, maybe more like all week, and it's setting Jaskier's teeth on edge, filling him up with frustration and worry. He doesn't enjoy being snapped at, but what it really makes him want to do is put a hand on each of Geralt's cheeks, look him in the eyes, and ask what's going on in his head.

It feels sometimes like there's a thick fog around Geralt. He can't hear Jaskier through it, and Jaskier can't see him properly. It’s a barrier between them, a living thing Jaskier can’t cross, no matter how much he wants to.

This time, they manage to find a cave - a rare occurrence indeed. Even after years of traveling, Jaskier is still weary of caves, always expecting something primeval to emerge from the depths just as he’s getting settled. Geralt doesn’t seem to share this reluctance, and Jaskier is half sure he’d be laughed at if he shared it.

This cave doesn’t seem large enough to hide anything terrifying, however. Geralt makes a small fire in the center, while Jaskier winces as he settles himself on the damp leaves covering the cave floor. “Gods, it’s cold in here.”

Geralt just grunts, and Jaskier takes him in for a moment. There’s a haggard, unkempt look to his face, and Jaskier realizes suddenly his hair must not have been retied yesterday, an uncharacteristic oversight.

“Come here, you big lout,” Jaskier tells him, motioning for Geralt to sit beside him. When he does, Jaskier immediately leans against him, and the witcher produces a surprised grunt. He doesn’t pull away, though.

Jaskier pulls one of their packs towards him, and retrieves Dandelion from where he had stored him the night before. Through the cave opening, he can see a sliver of sky, splintered to pieces by trees. He grabs another pack, leaving the first leaning against him so he can enjoy the pressure, and pulls Fangtooth from it.

When he hands the small toy to Geralt, his companion startles, as if he had forgotten Jaskier was there. He takes Fangtooth without complaint, but lowers his head as if embarrassed. Jaskier decides to ignore this and lead by example, settling back against Geralt’s strong shoulder with Dandelion prominently in his arms.

Thunder crashes, and Geralt jumps a little, his clutch on Fangtooth tightening. His face is set and his eyes distant, and Jaskier is desperate to find an anchor, something he can use to pull Geralt back to him.

“Do you like storms?” He asks, realizing immediately what a lame question it is. Geralt shrugs. 

“They’re fine.”

“I love them. My sister and I used to sit in the attic and watch them through the window.”

There’s a very long pause, and then Geralt says, very quietly, “My mother used to watch them with me.”

“Oh.” Jaskier doesn’t know what else to say. For once, he’s devoid of the magic words to keep Geralt talking. Luckily, Geralt doesn’t seem to need them.

“We never took shelter, she said her druid magic would be enough to protect us. And she was right. No matter how hard it rained, we never seemed to get wet. She would tell me stories about the lightning and the thunder talking to each other, but they have to wait for the other one to finish before they can speak.”

Jaskier is almost breathless at this unprecedented openness. He whispers, “what happened to her?”

Geralt shakes his head. “Nothing. She left.”

And suddenly, a million little things about Geralt seem to snap into place, a puzzle half solved finally revealing its picture.

“With the witchers?” Jaskier is desperately hoping he’s right, that Geralt was at least handed off to an adult.

“By the side of the road. Vesemir was passing by and found me not long after, but I never knew if she had guessed he was coming, or if she just. Left.”

“I’m so sorry,” Jaskier says, burrowing into Geralt and reaching out to take his hand. Geralt lets him.

Lighting shatters the sky, making a momentary crosshatch against the branches, and Jaskier waits for the crash.

-

Jaskier sees Geralt pause on the road, but it’s too far ahead to see what he’s seen, still hidden by the bend. Geralt rushes forward then stops suddenly, whole body tensing and beginning to shake.

Geralt is still standing there like he’s frozen. Jaskier wants to go to him, wants it more than anything, feels the physical pull of it, but something stops him from moving forward. He feels like he’s trapped in quicksand.

Geralt takes one step back, then sinks to the ground in the middle of the road, slumping over himself. Jaskier can’t hear anything but his own heartbeat, the slight catch building in his breath.

Geralt doesn’t cry out, or yell. Like so much of his life, this is observed in silence. Even now, when Jaskier can tell he’s breaking apart, he can’t allow himself to scream.

The course of energy surprises Jaskier, bursting through his veins and moving him forward before he can think. The glass like quality of the moment has shattered, and he’s picking up speed, half running. Geralt is crying, he sees as he gets close enough. No sound, just a heaving chest and tears streaming down his face. He’s looking ahead blankly.

Jaskier kneels beside him, brings one hand to the back of his head as if he’s checking for an injury. He doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know what to do. Geralt doesn’t react, keeps staring ahead. There’s a fine tremor running through his body, humming under Jaskier’s fingertips. 

“Geralt?” Jaskier asks, keeping as much of the panic out of his voice as he can. Geralt lets out a low pained humming sound, an “mmmmmmmmm.” He doesn’t look at Jaskier. His hands are up over his head, not blocking his ears but simply holding on, like he’s afraid of letting go and falling apart. Jaskier is afraid of that as well.

He puts a gentle hand on Geralt’s shoulder, hoping that will be enough to get his attention. Jaskier has no idea what he’s doing but he wants Geralt to look at him, needs it. Needs to make sure he’s still in there.

“Geralt?” He says again, more insistently, and this time he gets a look in response, Geralt’s head snapping up for a moment, his body twisting around, before he draws back in on himself. His eyes, for the few seconds of contact, aren’t cloudy and vague as Jaskier had feared. Instead there’s too much there, anguish and anger and something like fear. It’s a bad combination. The overall effect is one of desperation.

“Is touch alright?” Jaskier asks, and he wants to say something that isn’t a question, wants to be sure of something, of anything.

He’s always been sure of Geralt. 

Geralt nods once, the movement harsh, running through his whole body. Jaskier runs a hand over his back, feeling the tension gathered in the muscles, trying to take comfort in the familiarity of them. It doesn’t really work. He rests his other hand on Geralt’s shoulder, moving up and down as his other hand goes back and forth.

For the first time, his gaze leaves Geralt and travels around their location, fixing on the pale body curled on the side of the road. The girl is in a ragged blue dress, and she’s barefoot. Her red hair is matted. She could be sleeping, except for her half lidded eyes and her total, complete stillness. She can’t be more than five. 

Jaskier sighs out, long and heavy. He has to keep it together. He can’t break down here, not when Geralt is fracturing in front of him. One of them always needs to be functional, it’s practically a law of nature.

Geralt hums again, resting his head on his knees momentarily. Jaskier squeezes his shoulder, then, on impulse, pulls him into his embrace. Geralt doesn’t fight him. He doesn’t really react at all, slumping awkwardly into the hold.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier says, holding on as tight as he can. “I’m so so sorry.”

THe body of the little girl lies motionless in front of them.

Jaskier wants to get back to the town, get Geralt to a room, but he can’t bring himself to move them just yet. They’re lucky this roadway is mostly unused and it’s early in the morning. Also, he has no idea how responsive Geralt is going to be to getting up. If he won’t move, Jaskier’s pretty much fucked.

Eventually, though, someone will come along, and he’d rather Geralt is out of the way before that happens. So he carefully lets go, making sure Geralt won’t just flop over without him. There’s something he needs to do first. The little girl deserves a burial, but Jaskier doesn’t have time for that. Instead, he lifts her carefully, shuddering at how stiff she is. He hadn’t realized Geralt is watching him, but he must be, because he lets out a small cry when Jaskier picks her up, curling even farther in on himself.

“I’m just moving her,” Jaskier reassures, knowing the words are mostly for him. “Setting her somewhere safe until we come back.”

Geralt doesn’t react.

He finds a little space under a fallen log, and tries to feel less like he’s stashing her away as if she was a secret. He doesn’t want passersby coming and disturbing her. 

“I’m so sorry to leave you like this,” he whispers. “As soon as Geralt’s better we’ll come back and bury you, alright? We won’t leave you alone.”

He still has to walk out of those woods, and no matter how much it feels like abandoning the girl all over again, he’s anxious about leaving Geralt. The witcher hasn’t moved when he returns to him. Jaskier places a hand on his back. 

“Can you get up?”

No response.

Jaskier pushes gently, trying to indicate upwards motion instead of just pushing him forward. Again, no response.

“Come on, please. Stand up with me, okay?” This time, he wraps both arms around Geralt and tries to lift him up. After a moment, he responds.

He’s unsteady on his feet, his whole posture slumped as if he’s melting. Jaskier is uncomfortably reminded of wax dripping down a candle. But he follows when Jaskier readjusts his grip to Geralt’s shoulder.

It takes them a long time to get back to the town, and the entire time Jaskier’s brain is in overload mode. He’s worrying about everything - the girl’s body being found by predators, how on earth he’s going to get Geralt up the stairs, what the people in the town will think when they see him leading a mostly unresponsive witcher through their town. THey had mostly seemed indifferent to him, but Jaskier’s been travelling with Geralt so long that he knows that could change in an instance.

And of course, he is wildly worried about Geralt. He’s seen him in a bad way before, but he can’t remember ever seeing him like this. He feels frustrated as to the cause. He knows the pieces, but they won’t fit together yet, he can’t see the whole picture.

He considers taking Geralt to the stables to see Roach, but he thinks he’ll feel better getting him upstairs and sitting down, where Jaskier can fuss over him until the anxiety pooling in his gut lessens.  
Getting up the stairs is exactly as hard as Jaskier had predicted. Geralt just stops at first, looking ahead blankly. “Come on,”Jaskier says. “You have to step up.” After a moment, Geralt tries, clearly unsteady. Jaskier puts a hesitant hand behind him, ready to attempt to catch him if he falls.

Finally they’re in their room, finally. Jaskier pulls the blanket off the bed in one quick motion, then guides Geralt to sit on it. He follows directions easily. 

Jaskier starts messing around in their bags, looking for the softest shirt Geralt owns, the one he knows he secretly prefers. He returns to the bed and begins pulling the armor off his companion. It feels like so many times before, when Geralt has been too badly injured to help, except when he catches a glimpse of Geralt's face, blank except for the clear lines of pain. He helps him into the soft shirt ( black, of course), then leaves him on the bed so he can get things set up.

He pulls the gray blanket from his pack, as well as their bedrolls and the blankets from the bed. The bed is only slightly out from the wall, so he piles several of the pillows and blankets there. He keeps a couple, including the gray one, back.

He reaches over and grabs Geralt’s hand, pulling him up again, and resettles him in the blankets next to the bed, and wraps the gray blanket tightly around his shoulders. Geralt curls into the embrace. Jaskier goes back to their bag and grabs Fangtooth and Barnard, who’s basically a pillow anyways.

Geralt reaches out a little bit for Fangtooth, and holds her to his chest when Jaskier hands him over. Jaskier sets Barnard next to him, then lays a hand on Geralt’s shoulder and squeezes. “I’ll be right back, okay?” Geralt’s eyes flick over Jaskier for a moment, but beyond that he doesn’t really react.

Jaskier goes down to the main room of the inn. People’s eyes follow him as he goes through the room, and he feels a running prickle of unease. If something happens, Geralt is in no state to defend them, and Jaskier isn’t entirely confident in his ability to defend Geralt.

Away from Geralt, Jaskier’s anxiety blossoms, threatening to choke him, leave him once again immobile. He has no clue what’s happening with Geralt, no idea how to even begin fixing it, beyond what he’s already done. He wants a magic solution, something to make things go back to the way they were, but the more he thinks about it the more he can’t pin down which “were” he’s thinking of. 

He gets bread for them and a cup of tea, because that’s always been soothing to him. He’s mostly been going off of things that soothe him, even though he knows that’s not a perfect solution. It seems not to have been awful so far, but then again he’s not sure Geralt would be able to express it if it was.

The tea is ready fairly quickly, although to Jaskier it seems to take forever. His thoughts won’t stay out of the upstairs room with Geralt, and when they do stray, it’s to the sad figure of the girl, of the way her still frozen body had felt in his arms. When he had been a child, a pet rabbit had died (not an infrequent occurrence, but this one stood out) and Jaskier had been the one to find it. With a child’s curiosity, he had reached out and picked it up. There had been an odd unreality to the way it’s body, stiff and a little flattened where it had been laying against the ground. The memory was what he couldn’t stop thinking of. He sort of hated that he was comparing this child to an animal, although the particular rabbit had been beloved by him and his siblings.

When Jaskier enters the room, Geralt hasn’t moved from the nest Jaskier had made, and Jaskier relaxes, not having realized how tense he was. The relaxation fades when he realizes there are tears streaking down Geralt’s cheeks.

Jaskier is beside him in an instant, causing the tea to rock dangerously from side to side in it’s mug. He sets it down on the floor and puts one hand on the back of Geralt’s neck, the other under his chin. He tilts it a little up so their eyes meet, not sure what he’ll find in Geralt’s but hoping there will be something. 

What he finds isn’t exactly encouraging, but it’s better than nothing. Geralt seems slightly more aware, more there, but the sadness in his eyes has somehow deepened, pooling around his pupils. His eyes track Jaskier’s face, though, which is better than before.

“Geralt?”

He only hmms in response, but it’s a response, and Jaskier could cry. He wants to throw his arms around Geralt, but he’s not sure how that would be received. Instead, he holds out a hand in a silent request. Geralt reaches out and grabs it, pulling Jaskier towards him. There’s barely room, but he presses himself between the bed’s frame and Geralt’s. Geralt lifts the top blanket, holding it out to him. Jaskier takes it, and wraps himself close.

\--

Geralt doesn’t speak that day. For the most part, they stay in the little room, curled together. Jaskier is loathe to leave again, worried Geralt will slip back into himself without someone there. He does seem to grow more distant a few times, but Jaskier discovers that guiding the witcher’s hand to Fangtooth and letting him stroke the little toy is grounding. And Geralt is never quite as out of reach as that morning.

The next morning, Jaskier tries to get them going early. It’ll take time to dig the grave, especially since he’s not counting on Geralt to be much help. He’s anxious about making him go back so soon, but they don’t have the coin to stay another night and Jaskier is worried about leaving the body for too long. He thinks it would be worse if they came back to find it torn apart. 

Geralt is still silent, and he keeps Fangtooth in his hand, but he helps Jaskier pack their things, and seems pleased to see Roach, wrapping an arm around her neck while she nuzzles him.

The corpse is undisturbed, but Jaskier can see that it has begun to bloat. It’s a good thing they came back today. Geralt stays at the edge of the trees while Jaskier drapes a sheet he’d stolen from the inn over the little girl. There’s a small stuffed horse clutched in one of her hands, he realizes as he’s doing so. He must have missed it earlier. Gently, he tries to pry it away, and her fingers, after some working, come loose.

The light shifts in the corner of his vision, and Jaskier realizes Geralt is standing next to him. He’s still holding Fangtooth in one hand, almost awkwardly. Jaskier holds out the horse, not wanting to break the sanctity of this sun-drenched place by speaking. Geralt makes a noise almost like a whine, carefully running one finger along the horse’s mane.

“You hold this for her,” Jaskier says. “I need to dig the grave.” He’s not looking forward to the hours of backbreaking work, but it’s better than leaving her where she can be picked at by vultures.

Geralt hmms, and reaches out the hand not holding Fangtooth. It takes Jaskier a moment to realize what he’s doing, and when he does, the earth is already heaving upwards. Geralt makes the sign of Aard two more times, and there’s a crater in the ground six feet deep and four feet wide, roughly. It’s going to be hell to fill back in, but at least Jaskier doesn’t have to dig it out.

Jaskier moves back to the girl, and wraps her more carefully in the sheet, jumping awkwardly into the grave with her and placing her on the newly made floor. He doesn’t want the sheet to be covering her face, but he also doesn’t want the dirt falling directly on her, so he pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and carefully arranges it.

He places the horse back in her hand, and her hand on her little chest. He wishes he had something better to dress her in, but her rags will have to do. 

Getting out of the grave proves more difficult than he had thought through. In the end, Geralt comes to the edge and pulls him up.

Standing by the graveside, the light dances in the trees, marking the sun’s progress as it inches higher. It’s going to be a hot day. Jaskier doesn’t want to look down into the grave again, so he looks at Geralt. Geralt looks back. Neither of them say a word. The morning is too still for that.

After a moment, though, Jaskier begins to sing, because she deserves some ceremony, even if it’s only his voice. He sings a devotional song he learned from his mother, his voice clear and true. When it’s done, he reaches down and throws the first dirt in by hand.

\--

They stay nearby that night. They could move on, but Jaskier doesn’t want to leave her alone so soon, though he knows she’s past caring. She should have someone keep watch over her, at least one more night.

They can see the grave from where their camp is set up. Geralt had used Aard again to move a boulder on top of it, further protection from hungry animals. Jaskier had wanted to write something on it, but had no idea what.

They stay close to each other. Geralt’s movements still seem slightly dazed, his eyes a little distant, but while he’s not better he’s _back_ , and that’s enough for Jaskier.

They sleep side by side, Fangtooth and Dandelion nestled between them, listening to the owls call.

\--

In the morning, Geralt is sitting by the remnants of their fire. Jaskier hadn’t noticed him get up. He turns his head when he sees Jaskier.

“Good morning,” Jaskier says gently.

“Morning,” Geralt says in an even rougher voice than usual. Jaskier sits next to him. 

“We should talk.”

Geralt nods, but doesn’t say anything else, so Jaskier takes it upon himself to begin.

“You aren’t well. You haven’t been for a long time.”

Geralt nods, staring intently at the gray ash.

“I don’t know how to help you. I wish I did, but I don’t.”

“You help,” Geralt says, still not looking at him. “More than you know.”

“Alright. I can help, but I can’t fix it.”

“I don’t think anyone can.”

They’re silent for a long time, now. Birds are singing. Maybe they were singing all along.

“Do you know what we do next?” Jaskier tries to keep the desperation out of his voice, and mostly fails.

Geralt looks down at his own hands, examining the grave dirt beneath his nails. “I want to go home. Kaer Morhen. If you’ll come with me.”

Jaskier’s breath catches in his throat. In all their years of traveling together, Geralt has never invited him to the witchers’ keep. To be fair, Jaskier has never explicitly invited Geralt to Oxenfurt, but he thinks it’s implied.

“That’s what we’ll do,” he says, taking Geralt’s hand and looking up at the sky.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading


End file.
